


The Bombshell

by stareyedInLA



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 66th Hunger Games, Anxiety Disorder, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Gen, Headcanon, MacGuyver-esque improvisation, Mental Health Issues, POV Original Character, beware of the quiet ones, beware of the shy ones, moral decay of main character, staving off the inevitable, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:50:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stareyedInLA/pseuds/stareyedInLA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is common knowledge that District 5 has sent clever tributes to the Arena.  And eighteen-year-old Ada Linus is no different.  So how was it that a shy and awkward young woman manage to kill nine other tributes during the 66th Hunger Games?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As we walk towards the Justice Building, I cross my fingers and pray to any higher authority listening that Herman's name isn't drawn. Looking down, I notice that Herman is doing the same thing._
> 
>  
> 
> It's Reaping Day, and all Ada Linus wants is to get through the day without losing her mind or her best friend.

* * *

 

"Ada, what do you think you're doing?"

I let go of the two little, crooked pins that are jammed in the keyhole of my apartment's front door and turn around to find my dad standing in the hallway. He walks up to me with a frown that makes the wrinkles and creases on his face more pronounced. He is still wearing his work clothes with the shiny brass security badge pinned to his chest.

How long have I been out here, I ask myself, staring at the badge.

Dad works an eight-hour shift as a security officer at the Snow Dam, one of the biggest power plants in District 5. He always leave at eight o'clock in the evening, on the dot, the same time I get back after my own four hour stint on the Snow Dam's maintenance crew. Then I don't see him again until the morning, when I'm walking to school and he's coming back from work. I try to calculate the hours and determine what time it is, but my mind doesn't seem to be working. I keep thinking that seven in the morning, but I may have lost time. I went to bed at 10:15 last night, as always, but I only got a few hours of sleep. The rest of the night was spent trying to get back to sleep. When that didn't work, I decided to pass the time by picking locks. So, if I take that into account...

"It's eight forty-five," Dad says, interrupting my train of thought. "You know you can sleep in today, right?"

He looks at me, then at the cut up and bent paper clips sticking out of the keyhole, and then at me again. He looks down at the clothes I'm wearing and cocks his head to one side. I've been wearing a blue plaid dress for three days now. And why not? It's clean. It's the one dress I feel comfortable in. And I like it. Slowly, I put two and two together to realize that he might be thinking of something else entirely. I want to open my mouth and scream, "no! This isn't what it looks like!"

But he beats to the punch.

"Ada, did you forget your house keys," he asks.

I frantically shake my head. No! Never! As proof, I reach into the front of my dress and pull out the keys that I always wear around my neck. There are two keys, one to let me into the building and one that opens the apartment, that dangle on a length of blue ribbon. Dad made the necklace for me when I was six and just about to start school. If I ever came home before he or Mom did, I could let myself in rather than wait in the hall, all day, for them.

"Then tell me. What's going on here," he asks, pointing to the paper clips.

"I wanted to try it out." I've been interested in lock picking for a while now. Maybe a couple of months, or so. In the last few weeks, I've been testing out new techniques with a variety of household implements like hairpins, safety pins, a bit of a broken fork, coat hangers, and screwdrivers.

I'm even making plans to build an electric lock pick. Gathering the materials will be a challenge, and I'll need to rely on books and what I learned from taking apart and rebuilding old electronics. There aren't that many people in 5 who share my passion for inventing. Well, besides my friend Herman.

Herman LaPorte has been my best friend ever since we were eight-years-old. Like me, he is interested in anything relating to the sciences and inventing. But even he'll grow disinterested after a while. Sometimes, when I try talking about plans for a new experiment or a project, he'll zone out. He'll just stare off into space and bob his head, murmuring "uh-huh" or "yeah" or "okay". It's kind of annoying.

To be honest, I think I get that way too if he babbles on about geology for too long. I'm sorry, but I don't see what is so interesting about rocks. Or venturing out to the desert, located on the outskirts of town, and looking for what he calls "mineral samples".

"Really?" Dad doesn't sound interested, maybe even a little weirded out. I realize that I should have lied, even though I am a terrible one at best. I do appreciate how he puts up with all this. Lock picking isn't my first odd hobby. My room, with its messy array of plants, malfunctioning inventions, blueprints, home-made mechanical toys, books on electrical currents, and dam-making guides, stands as testament to the fact. "So, how did you learn this?"

"I taught myself," I explain, "Lock-picking isn't all that difficult. All you need is something to fit into the lock, preferably something long , thin, and metallic, and a lot of patience."

"You think you can give me a demonstration?"

I nod my head. Steadying my hold on the tension wrench that is secured firmly in the lower part of the keyhole, I rake the top paper clip over the pins inside. After a minute of raking the clip and pushing the pins up, I can hear them strike the cylinder with a loud "click". I twist the knob to my left and, to my great relief, the door swings open.

Dad flashes me a grin that suddenly makes me feel uneasy. One hand reaches out to grab my shoulder, but before he can even touch me, I am scrambling away from him on all fours. Dad frowns and withdraws his hand.

"Sorry," I squeak.

He shakes his head. "It's my fault. I forget how much you hate that."

I stagger to my feet while Dad holds the door open. "Ladies first," he says.

I stand still. He keeps one hand in his pocket and the other on the knob.

"I promise I won't touch you," he says.

"Promise?"

He nods his head. I have no other choice but to take him at his word. We get inside, and I make sure to put as much distance between me and him as possible. The apartment is so small, I can walk ten paces from the front door to my bedroom.

"Make sure you put on something nice. It's Reaping Day," Dad adds.

I freeze up at the mere mention of Reaping Day. Panic surges through me like an electrical current as I try to steady my breath. Although this will be my seventh and final Reaping, I dread it even more than the others. Not because being picked serves as an automatic death sentence, and not because of the chance that I will lose Herman if his name is drawn.

It's because I can't stand the crowds that congest the District square on that day. I hate that constricting feeling of bodies pressed up against you, crushing your bones and squeezing your breath, your life, out of you. Someone's breath against my skin might as well be that of a Mutt closing in on me. Everything suddenly gets amplified. Noise echoes throughout the District, like we are enclosed in a dome. Colours are sharper, brighter. Your skin becomes more sensitive to the sandpaper-like texture of a wool dress or a cold and slippery feel of a silk shirt. There is too much going on.

And the worst part is that you can't leave that horrible place. The Peacekeepers stand guard and expect you to smile and be happy and celebrate. I can do that, but after a while, it gets to be too much. The way I see it is that everyone in District 5 are like the solar farms located on the outskirts of town. They can absorb energy and run on that all day long. Well, I can't. I'm the nuclear power plant with the internal battery that needs to be recharged or else I'll enter a meltdown.

* * *

My hands tremble as I change into a dark blue dress with purple and white flowers on the print. On a taller girl, it would look like it has short sleeves and a knee-length skirt. On me, however, the sleeves nearly touch my elbows and the skirt reaches past the mid-calf. I try wrapping an old belt around my waist, but it still looks like I am wearing a sack. I hate this dress, but new clothes are just one of those things we can't afford. And even if we had the money, it would be hard to find anything that fits me right.

The next few minutes are spent in front of the cracked and stained mirror hanging on the bedroom door, trying to make myself look pretty. There isn't much I can do. Make up and jewelry are luxuries I could only dream of owning. My hair is too short to style into braids or decorate with pins and ribbons. I try biting my lips and pinching my cheeks until they are flushed to a bright pink, but they quickly fade back to a pale beige.

Honestly, I don't see the point of even looking nice for the Reaping. I have never been picked. So why start now? Chances are, some kid from the poor side of town is going to get chosen because she took out tesserae over fifty times. I only have seven slips to my name because Dad won't let me get tesserae. Not even after he twisted his ankle and couldn't work for a month. That was about four years ago. He told me that if I did, I'll be grounded until my thirty-fifth birthday.

I don't see why we even have to be herded into the District square for this. Why not do a preliminary Reaping in the weeks leading up to it? Every residential area in 5 draws out a name of a boy and a girl for the final drawing on Reaping Day. That way, the square is less crowded and I don't have to leave my apartment unless my name is picked.

I look up to see the photograph of my mother taped to the mirror. She died when I was eight. Lung disease. Presumably from breathing in the toxic fumes of the coal-powered plant in the rural village where she grew up. Towards the end of her life, she had wasted away to a shriveled husk with stick-like limbs and a bony torso. She couldn't breathe without choking or wheezing or breaking into coughing fits that left her writhing on the bed until she slipped into unconsciousness. I couldn't bring myself to go near her. She looked like a monster. When she finally died, nobody would let me see her body. Instead, Dad gave me the photograph and told me it was better to remember her for who she was before she was sick.

My mother, with her olive skin, shiny black curls, and soft, almost alluring, amber eyes, was absolutely stunning. And it pains me to say that I could never be as beautiful as her.

With my dark brown hair and eyes and my small stature, I am easily my father's daughter. To make matters worse, I'm nearsighted and have to wear a pair of glasses with these giant, almost magnifying glass-types, lenses. When I was little, the kids at school would call me "Bug Eyes". Cripes, I hated that nickname. I hated it even more when Dad told me we couldn't afford a nicer pair. He always told me that looks aren't everything, but I don't believe it. Sure, brains are more valued in District 5. Only the smartest can go on to be systems analysts, maintenance managers, and engineers. But I've seen enough Hunger Games coverage to know that the prettier tributes have a better chance of surviving.

That's what happened last year, with the tribute from District 4, Finnick Odair. He was so beautiful, the Games commentators wouldn't stop gushing about him. The kid was fourteen years old and was getting all these ridiculously expensive sponsor gifts in the Arena. Capital television went bonkers when he won. And I don't expect for things to be any different this year.

* * *

Dad stands at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into two chipped mugs while the television is tuned in to a live feed of the District 2 Reaping. I tune out Caesar Flickerman's coverage of the event as I grab one of the mugs and start gulping down the hot, bitter liquid.

"Hey," Dad says, "slow down there. You'll burn yourself."

I don't care. I continue to chug the coffee until only the grounds remain. As I set the cup down, I start to feel jittery. My heart is racing and my knees slightly tremble, yet my mind is sharper, more focused. I relish the buzz that it gives me, motioning for him to refill my cup, but he shakes his head.

"Sorry Ada, but we have to ration," he explains.

Damn. I glance across the counter and notice that besides a couple of slices of toast and a sliced orange, there isn't much for breakfast. The orange is a welcome treat though. They're so expensive, we only have them twice a year: one on my birthday and the other on Reaping Day. The only fruit we can afford are apples, which are plentiful here for some reason. Fresh vegetables are also difficult to procure since District 11 is our only source of produce, and most of what they grow is sent directly to the Capital. There are families in our building who figured out a way to grow vegetables in their units, so there is a roaring trade of goods and services in exchange for food. It helps further our otherwise meager rations of tessera grain and oil and the overpriced bread and meat from the market.

I wolf down the toast, but as soon as the girls on television rush the stage, shoving and kicking down the others in a desperate bid to volunteer, I feel my stomach start to churn. Everything below my ribcage numbs. The crust of bread I was holding just a minute ago clatters back onto the plate and the grainy bread in my mouth feels like I am chewing on sand. Food suddenly loses it's appeal.

"I'm going to go see Herman," I mutter, pushing the plate away from me.

"You sure? The Reaping is i-"

"I know. I- I just need to be out for a little bit."

"Alright," he says, his voice dropping in tone until it is as soft as my own. "Just don't be late."

I nod in understanding, taking my share of the orange as I leave the apartment. I'm not hungry, but I think Herman would appreciate the treat.

* * *

Outside, the hallway is buzzing with activity. Families file out of their units and make their way to the stairwell as I run ahead of them, ducking past everyone I encounter. A couple of people shout out, but I can't stop to apologize. I scramble down five flights of stairs until I reach the basement, where Herman's family lives.

The unmistakable stench of mildew and rot greets me as I walk into the hallway. Mr. LaPorte, Herman's dad, makes extra money on the side by making repairs in the building, but not even his care can save this place. Cold water seeps through my canvas sneakers as I tread across the drenched carpet. Water and sewage surge through the leaky, rusty pipes overhead. The harsh florescent bulbs flicker on and off before one dies out, sending a long section of hallway into darkness.

I stop at one of the middle doors. Rust has started for form over the brass 'B4' nailed to the surface. The reddish stains bleed out onto the peeling, dark blue paint. Just as I ready to knock on the door, it smashes into me, sending me to the ground. I shut my eyes as I feel my side hits the ground before falling onto my back. Pain erupts all over me. The orange explodes in my hand.

"Dammit Herman! Do you ever watch where you're going," Mr. LaPorte bellows.

"It's not like he crashed into someone," Harvey, Herman's younger brother, adds. Footsteps move closer to me. "Oh, no wait, he did. Again."

Mr. LaPorte curses loudly as I hear more footsteps coming.

"Ada," Herman shouts. I open my eyes to find him looming over me. His long, shaggy red hair hangs in his bespectacled eyes as he leans in closer. I sit up, wincing as my dress begins to soak up the stagnant water, before not before I almost butt heads with him. "Oh shit. I'm so sorry. Are you alright?"

"Fine," I sputter. But that doesn't stop Herman from blubbering on about how sorry he is, how he didn't see me standing there, and how this will never happen again. I highly doubt the last part. Herman has a bad habit of running into, tripping over, or breaking things. Whenever he visits, Dad has to hide all of our fragile possessions. Herman reaches out and offers a hand, but I decline, preferring to get up on my own.

"Are you sure," Herman asks as we walk out of the apartment, trailing behind his parents and brother.

"Yes! Happy now?"

Herman hurriedly nods his head as we continue walking. We don't talk on the way to the square. Nobody does. My mind comes up with every horrible scenario that could happen. My name is drawn. No! Herman's name is drawn. No, even worse, both our names are chosen.

I shudder at the possibility of being forced into the Games with Herman. There can only be one Victor, and I can't bear the thought of losing him. Herman LaPorte is the only friend I have. It has always been the two of us. Ever since we were children. We do everything together. If, by some miracle, I survived; it would be a very lonely life. And I can't think of anything worse than dying old and alone. You can only do so much with a spool of wire and a pile of scraps. If you have the skills, you can make it into anything you want. Anything but a friend.

Looking at Herman, I am convinced he wouldn't live very long in the Arena. With his extreme height and flaming red hair, he is like a walking target. On top of that, he is a klutz who could never stand up for himself against a schoolyard bully. Or a group of them. Every scuffle he ever got into with Gene Dwyer and his goon squad is proof of that.

"You see something you like," Herman asks.

"Since when did you start wearing that," I ask, pointing to the bow tie knotted at his throat.

Herman grins, tugging on the ends of the bow tie. "Since today. I found it in a box of Grandpa's old stuff. You like it?"

"You look like an old man," I reply.

"Yeah, well, you look like a little boy in a dress," Herman retorts.

We glare at each other for a minute before breaking down into laughter. Despite his jab, I can't find it in me to get mad at him. For one thing, with my short hair, I do look like a boy. The other is because when I'm with him, every time I see him, talk to him, my day suddenly becomes a little bit brighter. And I know he feels the same way because of the his face lights up when he sees me. No matter how awful our day has been, just being together makes it worthwhile.

As we walk towards the Justice Building, I cross my fingers and pray to any higher authority listening that Herman's name isn't drawn. Looking down, I notice that Herman is doing the same thing.

* * *

The square is milling with people by the time we arrive. I slightly choke on the hot and dusty air. District 5 is surrounded by desert. According to my teachers, we're located in what was once called "the American southwest". Not that it matters anymore. This place they call "America" collapsed hundreds of years, giving way to Panem. On the plus side, the vast emptiness of the desert allows us to build more power plants, electrical stations, and solar and wind farms while a river located in the southeast enables us to have the dams. Because of our close proximity to the Capital, we can send electricity directly to them with little delay. For a District that doesn't have 1's gold and precious jewels, 2's Peacekeepers, or 4's beautiful Victors, we do pretty well. I once read that District 5 has one of the lowest rates of children taking out tesserae. But that might also be because we have the smallest population after the Capital.

After a Peacekeeper registers our names in a massive ledger, Herman and I are ushered into the roped off square with all the other eligible kids.

"I'll see you after the Reaping," Herman reassures me, "don't worry, we'll be fine. We'll get through this."

I nod my head before we are separated. Even though Herman is among one of the tallest men in the District, I quickly lose sight of him as I am pushed to one side with all the other girls. We are then quickly sorted into our appropriate age groups. Unlike previous years, where I was completely surrounded, I find myself leaning heavily against the thick rope that cordons us eighteen-year-olds from the stage. My breath hitches when I realize that I can't see Herman. The crowd grows is closing in on me, constricting me. Quickly, I squeeze my eyes shut and tightly grip the rope in front of me.

Prospero DeWitt's high and airy Capital accent fills my head and grates my ears as he chimes, "good afternoon, District 5! And welcome to the Reaping for the 66th annual Hunger Games!" Tuning him out isn't an option. He has the kind of voice that, once you hear it, you can't get out of your head.

The drawling tone of President Snow's narration is easier to block out when the screens erected around the square and the Justice Building start to play that propaganda video they show every year. The one that they think justifies having the Hunger Games. As punishment for our ancestors rising up against the faraway evil that is the Capital all those years ago, we have to sacrifice a boy and a girl for their stupid death match.

After all these years, you'd think the Capital would just let it go. I doubt there's even anyone in 5 who is old enough to remember the Rebellion.

Minnie Babbitt, who lives across the hall from us, comes to mind. She is almost eighty, but her memory has deteriorated so badly, she can't even recall last week, let alone the names of her son and grandchildren. She probably can't remember a time before the Hunger Games.

"And now onto the fun part," Prospero squeals, "ladies first, of course."

"Did he really just say that," someone snarls from behind me before a hush sweeps over the audience. I can just imagine him moving closer to the glass bowl filled with the slips of paper containing the names of every girl in District 5. Then he will snatch up the first slip his fingers touch. It's the same routine every year. The silence is unsettling, almost suffocating. We hold our collective breath in as he unfolds the paper. I grip the rope even harder, rubbing the rough, coiled texture against my skin until it starts to burn. After what feels like a century, he reads off the name.

"Ada Linus!"

My eyes snap open. Suddenly, all time suddenly comes to a halt. To my horror, everyone is staring at me. I can feel the wind knocked out of me, like I have been sucker punched in the stomach. That constricting feeling in my chest is getting tighter. My vision blurs as I feel lightheaded. My knees are shaking and the floor gives way as I fall into darkness.

* * *

"Everyone stand back! Give her some air!"

A rough hand is shaking my shoulder while someone continues shouting, "are you alright?"

I let out a low moan, my eyes fluttering open to find myself facing a shiny, black and white Peacekeeper's helmet. I let out this scream that sends everyone scurrying back. Before I can get away from him, he reaches out and clamps a big, gloved hand over my shoulder.

"She's alright," the Peacekeeper concludes. I struggle to get away from him, but he grips my arm even tighter. Pain shoots up from where he touches me. It's like there are a thousand needles sewn into his gloves. Another Peacekeeper joins in as they escort me up the stage. I want to kick them, but it's as if those needle-studded gloves are coated in a toxin that has paralyzed me from the waist down.

Everyone, Prospero, the two mentors and the mayor sitting behind him, look bewildered, unsure of what to do next. If this is being broadcast all over Panem, I must be looking really stupid at this moment. No. Not stupid. I have just held up a sign that reads, "Future Bloodbath Kill. Come and Get it" in big, bold letters.

I can't recall a Reaping, both here and in any other District, where someone fainted. Puking? Sure. Pissing their pants? Oh yeah. Screaming like a little girl? Too many times to count, especially from the boy tributes. But never fainting.

"Well, that was... something," Prospero remarks before moving on to selecting my District partner.

As he draws the unlucky boy's name, I stare down at my feet. I can't bring myself to face the audience. Not at the faces of people I have known my entire life. Dad, Herman, my teachers, my classmates. Nobody. I shut my eyes tightly and rub my hands together. It takes all my strength not to pass out again. "Please not Herman, please not Herman," I mumble, "please not Herman."

"Kelvin Dugald!"

I let out a huge sigh of relief. "Thank you, thank you, thank you" I whisper over and over again like a chant. For a fleeting moment, I can see Herman from the corner of my eye. He looks like he is ready to volunteer. But I shake my head and mouth, "no. Don't you dare". Herman may be smart, but he can be so impulsive. If he volunteers, he is going to be as dead as me. And I don't want to see him die.

Herman's look of determination slips into one of despair as he steps back into the crowd. Crying, I turn my head away from him and I peer over my glasses to see the boy who will be my District partner.

Kelvin Dugald isn't someone I recognize. He turns out to be a skinny fifteen-year-old of medium-height with bad acne, spiky black hair, and the bushiest pair of eyebrows I have ever seen. Shaking hands with him is like holding a fish; cold, limp, and clammy. He looks like he is ready to vomit.

With Kelvin and I as tributes, one thing becomes painfully clear. This year's Victor is not going to be from District 5.

* * *

The moment the Reaping ends, Peacekeepers hustle Kelvin and I into the Justice building. They take us down a marble-lined hallway and put us in separate rooms. We only have a few minutes to say our good-byes.

The first person I see is Dad. He looks so broken when he walks in, his head bowed and his shoulders trembling. His mouth is slightly open and twisted in a frown, his large eyes are misty, and he is breathing heavily. It hurts me to see him like this because the last time I saw him like this was when Mother died.

"Daddy," I whimper, sounding less like an eighteen-year-old woman and more like a little girl.

"It's going to be alright," Dad says in a trembling voice.

Dad's lying. I can tell. He is as bad of a liar as I am. Things won't be alright because I've seen it happen before. After Mother died, he tried to carry on with life. He did. But after a while, he started to break down. It was like he was still here, but his mind wasn't. He would sit and stare off into space or break down crying. It got so bad, I had to live with the family of one of Dad's friends for a few months before he could get back onto his feet. Although he is doing better now, there is always that chance that he could slip back into that state.

"No, it's not. Dad, don't lie to me. I think we both know what's going to happen."

Dad lets out a harsh sigh and stared back at me with those big, sad brown eyes of him. I look away, reaching for my house key necklace and pulling it over my head.

"Here," I say, holding out the keys, "I'm not going to need these anymore."

Dad shakes his head. "You keep them."

"But..." Dad holds his hand out, shushing me.

"Think of it as a tribute token," he explains, "a little something to remind you of home."

"But I'm never coming back."

"Yes, you will," he reassures me.

"In a body bag," I say.

"Or as a Victor," Dad finishes. "Ada, smart people have won the Games before. You don't need to be some meathead Career to win. Look at the Victors from District 3! Look at Ravi Mazzarin!"

Ravi Mazzarin is one of our Victors. He won the 30th Hunger Games by evading the Careers, nicking their supplies, and tricking them into turning on their alliance partners. He then tricked his sole remaining competitor, a boy from District 6, into eating nightlock berries on the pretense that they should celebrate the fact that they have made it so far into the Games.

"But I'm not Ravi," I insist.

"No, you're Ada," Dad reminds me, "and the Ada I know doesn't need a sword to survive. She just needs her brain. The Capital will teach you survival skills. Learn as many as you can, but stay away from any weapons you don't know how to use. As long as you use your head and stay away from the Careers, you'll be alright."

I nod my head. It's all common sense advice. But I appreciate Dad's help.

"Can I ask you a favor," Dad says.

"What is it?"

"You think you can give your old man a hug?"

As much as I hate hugs, I can't refuse him. Taking a deep breath, I hold my arms out and wrap them around Dad's bony torso. He returns the gesture. I shut my eyes and block out the impulse to pull back. I hurt him enough today, I don't want his last memory of us together to be of me pushing him away. I already have a lifetime of doing that. For once, I want Dad to know that he has a daughter who loves him and who can show for it.

Just then, a Peacekeeper marches into the room to take Dad away. He clasps me in his arms for one last time and plants a kiss on my head, something he hasn't done ever since I was a very small child. "I love you, Ada. And I'm proud of you. And so would your mother. We love you very much."

"I love you too, Daddy," I shout. But the door slams shut between us, and I don't know if he heard me. I hope he did.

After Dad is Herman. He latches onto me, pulling me into a tight embrace. One arm wraps itself around my waist while the other snakes up my spine and holds me in place like a brace. His massive hand presses my head against his shoulder and I can feel the soft, feathery strands of his hair brush against my face. All the air is sucked out of my lungs as he pulls me closer to him. His long hair and the rough wool fibers of his sweater vest smothers my nose and mouth. I struggle, trying to push away, but he holds me ever closer.

"You can't give up," Herman chokes, "no matter what happens, you can't give up."

"I- I don't think I can," I gasp, "Herman, if a-anything happens to me... I- I need you to look away. You have to look away. I don't want you to see me die."

"Don't say that!" Herman pulls away, but he doesn't let me go. Instead, he clamps his hands on my face. For someone who is so skinny, he has a strong grip. I can't look away. Talking is impossible. There is this intense pressure building up in my head, and if Herman holds me even closer, I think it will explode.

"You'll survive this," Herman whispers, "I know you can. You can think of a way to win this. You just can't give up."

I know this isn't true, but I don't have it in me to tell him. I open my eyes, and what I see sends my heart sinking to my stomach. Herman is crying. I've only seen Herman cry twice in his entire life. The first was when his grandfather died and the other was when Gene Dwyer and his goon squad attacked him in a school bathroom five years ago.

I can't believe I am saying this, but for the first time in my life, I notice Herman's eyes.

His eyes aren't brown, like everyone else in 5. They're green. Not emerald green or sea green, but rather a nice shade of olive with brown specks in them. Now I wish I had noticed his eyes during the happier times in our short, shared life. I bet they are lovely. Here, they are glazed over with this look of pained desperation. And it's something I think will haunt me until I die.

Herman draws me back into one last embrace. I close my eyes and I rest my head against his shoulder.

"I'll try," I whisper. But deep down inside, I know I can't keep my promise. All I can think about is how much I am going to let Herman down the moment my cannon sounds.

* * *


	2. Escalation, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Ah damn," I mumble. I can already imagine a flock of garishly dressed freaks swarming me, poking me and prodding me with talons painted in gold and pink and orange. I wrap my arms tightly around my shoulders, trying to contain my shaking._   
> _“Ada, listen to me,” Ravi commands “you don't have to get along with your prep team, but you do need to cooperate with them if you have any chance of making a good impression for the sponsors. I realize this could be a problem, but I need you to remain calm. Whatever happens, I need you to go to your happy place. Can you do that?”_
> 
>  
> 
> Ada learns the hard way that the pre-Games preparation is worse than the Games themselves.

* * *

The next several hours are disorienting.

Camera-wielding reporters swarm the car, the station, and the surrounding streets, in a bid to get a good look of District 5's newest tributes. The cameras go off in big, white flashes that leave black spots clouding my sight and make my eyes tear up. With all the screaming, the yelling, the constant clicking of cameras, it feels like the whole world has gone to hell.

Kelvin, my District partner, stares out the window, looking absolutely dumbfounded. He strikes me as someone who has never been noticed in his life. Always sitting off to the sidelines, never getting any recognition. At school, the teachers make a point to recognize the brilliant students, so I don't think Kelvin was a particularly remarkable one. If he has friends, they overshadow him. If he has siblings, his parents probably paid more attention to them. I know the LaPorte's are like that. Mr. and Mrs. LaPorte prefer Harvey over Herman because Harvey is the younger brother who is great at sports and has the huge following of friends and girlfriends to show for it. Herman just has good grades and me.

It’s only when we reach the train platform that Kelvin starts to smile. He flashes the reporters and camera operators a toothy grin and waves to them as we stand at the train door. I keep my head bowed down, shutting my eyes against the blinding flashes of bulbs going off. As soon as we are ready to leave, I rush inside. The train doesn't wait for us to get settled in before it departs. It lurches forward the moment the doors slide to a close. I loose my balance and collapse onto the carpet. Prospero offers to help me up, but I decline, instead pulling myself up by a railing.

“While we’re here, allow me give you the grand tour of the tribute train,” Prospero says. He takes us down each compartment, rattling on about each room and its opulent decor. I just tune him out as I lag behind him and Kelvin. I could care less about mahogany and crystal.

My mind is growing number, more insipid, the longer I have to listen to this man talk. Prospero was tolerable in previous years because I only had to listen to him for an hour before parting ways. Now I am going to be stuck with this man until the Games start. His voice will be echoing through my head, on loop, until I am driven completely and hopelessly insane. The only way it will end is if I beg someone to put me out of my misery.

Finally, Prospero shows us to our private sleeping cars. When we get to the one designated for me, I am just ready to collapse.

I ignore his reminder that supper is in an hour when I slide the compartment door shut, cutting him off. The room is just as lavishly decorated as the other cars on this train. Too much so. The place seems to be dripping with silk, gold trim, and expensive knickknacks.

The bathroom, to my delight, is free from these sensory distractions. It’s small and paved in a creamy white stone. Save for the low hum of the train, it’s quiet. I curl up in the shower and let my eyes recover from the bombardment of colour they have just been exposed to. I feel completely and utterly spent. Nothing seems to want to work right. My body has just about given up while my mind is going haywire.

Images of Dad and Herman flash through my eyes, almost as if some mental projector has been turned on and is screening my thoughts on the white walls. What are they doing right now? On second thought, no, I don’t want to know. Thinking about them is unbearably painful.

After a long time, I hear the bathroom door open.

“Hey, Ada, are you in here?”

It’s not Prospero. That is definitely a girl’s voice speaking. Older, sounding annoyed, and almost a little snotty, like some of the rich girls at school who think they are better because their parents are merchants or work for the mayors office. But mercifully free from that vulgar Capital accent. I open my eyes and find myself facing Lianna Horvath, Victor of the 57th Hunger Games. And my mentor for the 66th Games.

I knew Lianna Horvath before she became famous because Minnie Babbitt’s then-teenaged granddaughter despised her. Dad used to send me over to the Babbitt’s for the afternoon when he wanted to be alone. I can still recall thumbing through Nadine Babbitt’s science books while she and her friends sat around in a circle on the living room floor and gripe about Lianna’s bad behavior. Honestly, I can’t remember much of what they said. What I do remember seems to consist of Lianna making snide remarks about their clothes, their families, the fact that two of the girls had better grades than her, and that Nadine’s boyfriend was better looking than her latest piece of arm candy even though Nadine spoke with a stutter and has several large moles on her face. It all sounds like the same bad behavior I see from the rich girls in my classes.

Nadine and her friends rejoiced when Lianna was Reaped. And they were spitting mad when she came back to District 5 as a newly crowned Victor. You can’t exactly forget the quintet of furious teenage girls as their screaming and swearing echo from down the hall.

Lianna stares down at me, her amber eyes narrowed to slits, chin held up high as if she already knew she was better than me. With her stylish clothing, long, shiny black hair, and perfectly made up face, she is the grown up rendition of my grade’s resident mean girls.

“Sulking in the shower, aren’t we,” she sneers. Any notion of self pity quickly evaporates. I’m starting to see why Nadine despised her. “Once your done wallowing in the one-person pity party, pull yourself together, and go to the dining car. Dinner’s been out for half an hour and you're taking to long to show up.”

She leaves me sitting in the shower. For a few minutes, I contemplate just locking myself in the bathroom until we arrive in the Capital. But I push that thought aside. For one thing, it sounds rather immature, locking myself somewhere to piss off my neighbor’s childhood bully. Also, I don’t think I want to invoke the wrath of Lianna Horvath. She did kill three people, including her own District partner, during her Games.

 

* * *

 

When I slide open the door to the dining car, I am greeted by a cacophony of clattering silverware, Prospero’s vulgar Capital accent, and Lianna barking orders at a waiter that bombards my ears. But not before the savory odor of roast beef puts me in a daze and clouds my judgement. I sway in place, unable turn and run back to my room when Prospero exclaims, “come join us!

His words are like a lure that hooks onto me and reels me up to the table before tying me me to my chair. Someone has already served out my portion: roast beef, a baked potato smothered in butter and chives, and buttered peas. Even though everything is too rich for my liking, I am eating as much as I can. After a lifetime of eating canned fruit and vegetables and cheap bread and coffee, I’ve never had anything so delicious.

Kelvin attempts to make small talk with me. He asks me questions about my family, my classes, what I do after school, if I like baseball, and the like. Or, questions of that caliber. I block out most of what he asks before he says something that has me dropping my fork.

“I see you with Herman LaPorte a lot,” says Kelvin, “do you know Harvey?”

Well, of course. They’re brothers. Other than glimpses of him around the LaPorte’s apartment, I don’t see Harvey all that often. And if I do, he’s usually surrounded by his posse of friends. I certainly don’t know him well. I know he plays baseball and soccer, he loves women, and his math grades are atrocious, but that’s about it.

“Not really,” I whisper.

“That’s a shame,” sighs Kelvin.

I scan Kelvin through the corner of my eye, seeing if I can pinpoint him to any one of Harvey’s friends. I soon realize this is impossible. I can’t remember what any of his friends look like. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t recognize Kelvin when he was called up.

“How do you know him,” I ask.

“Can you repeat that again? I can’t hear you. You talk too quietly.”

“How do you know him,” I repeat myself, raising my voice.

“Say what?”

I grip my fork and knife in my hands, resisting the urge to lose it. How many times do I have to repeat myself? Is Kelvin deaf?

“I said, ‘how do you know him,” I say, almost shouting. Kelvin scoots his chair back at the force of my outburst.

“Okay! Okay! No need to go berserk,” exclaims Kelvin, throwing his hands up in the air, “I just can’t hear you well. You talk too quietly. And to answer your question, yeah, we’re friends. Ever since the sixth grade.”

“Are you close?”

“I think so. Harvey came by to say goodbye. Well, not really. He never said that this is goodbye or that this is the end or that I’m a dead man. He just told me to knock them dead and I told him that he better keep his hands off of my sister while I’m gone. I mean, I’ve been seeing him make googly eyes at Curie for months now. And I keep telling him that he isn’t allowed to go out with my sister because that’s not what friends do each other. But I’m pretty sure Harvey---”

I try tuning Kelvin out, but he talks so rapidly, his words mush together into a buzzing drone that fills the room. It’s like someone has strung up several live Tracker Jacker hives all over the compartment. When ignoring him doesn’t work, I try covering my ears, only to catch a glimpse of Prospero frowning at me.

“Don’t do that, Ada, that’s bad manners,” he reprimands me in a muffled tone. I reluctantly take my hands off, only to recoil as my ears are bombarded by the deafening chaos surrounding me. It’s like someone has grabbed a handful of long, sharp skewers and is now stabbing them into my skull, piercing my eardrums, my brain, and the back of my eyeballs.

Never have I felt pain like it.

I push my chair away from the table, almost knocking it over as I dash towards the end of the car, trying to pry the sliding door open. It’s stuck! I jerk on it some more, ignoring the shouts coming from behind me. After several tense seconds, that blasted door finally slides open and I take off for the hallway.

Behind me, Prospero is shouting for me to come back. Something about dessert and watching the Reaping recaps. But I could care less.

When I get back to my room, I collapse onto the soft, feather bed that takes up the most of the compartment. After today’s series of meltdowns, I am just about ready to go into shutdown mode. My body has ceased working. Only my mind remains active, trying to recover from all the abuse that it went through today. Now that I am in a quiet place where I can cool down, the sharp pains caused by those imaginary needles subside to a dull throb.

I close my sore eyes and let the darkness take over.

 

* * *

 

“You should eat something. We'll be in the Capital in an hour, and it's going to be a long day,” Prospero says as I down yet another mug of coffee. It's the morning after the Reaping, and everyone is sitting around the dining car table for breakfast.   “Try the fried ham. It is divine.”

I shake my head. “Not hungry,” I grumble, reaching for the coffee carafe and pouring myself another mug. Meanwhile, Kelvin is shoveling down scrambled eggs, bacon, and oranges without a care in the world. How anyone can eat at a time like this is beyond me.

Prospero seems to be deaf to my response. He takes a pair of silver tongs and is ready to serve whatever is from the platters before I stick my arms out over my plate.  

“I said, ‘I said, I’m not hungry,’” I snap before slumping back in my chair.

“Leave her alone,” Ravi says, “if she doesn’t want to eat, she doesn’t want to eat.”

“You can't just live on coffee for the rest of your life,” Prospero points out.

I disagree.  I’ve lived off of just coffee before.  Granted, I’ve been told it’s actually not good for me, but it’s possible.  Just to make him shut up, I take a slice of toast from a silver rack and bite into it.  

“C'mon Ada,” Kelvin interrupts, bits of food flying out of his mouth as he speaks.   “Live a little.  When'll you get to eat this again?”

I ignore him.  I’ve been having toast and coffee for breakfast for years now.  It’s one of those habits that I have to stick to.  It maintains some semblance of normalcy.  Dad understands it and never questioned me about it.  

“Didn't your mom teach you not eat with your mouth full,” Lianna snaps, glaring at Kelvin as she wipes the flecks of her dress.  

“Which one,” Kelvin asks, cocking an eyebrow at Lianna’s direction.  Lianna rolls her eyes lets out a loud huff while Ravi shakes his head.  They remind me of the teachers I used to have in school.  They have the same responses whenever someone in class is being annoying.  

 Lianna is cursing under her breath as she gets out of her chair and leaves the dining car in a huff. Kelvin drops his fork, frowning as he slowly chews his food.  

“But seriously, which one,” Kelvin asks us, “I have two moms.  My mom or my stepmom?”

Is Kelvin even joking?  I can’t tell if he’s being serious or being stupid.  But it sounds like the kind of smart-ass excuse my classmates would use, so I’m leaning towards obnoxiously stupid.  Ravi and Prospero stare at him and then at each other.  No one says anything.  How can you even respond to Kelvin anyway?  

I continue chugging down my coffee despite Prospero's pleas for me to eat something other than toast. Despite the buzz from the caffeine, my head feels foggy and I find myself nodding off before snapping back.  

Last night, I dreamed that I was in the Games.  I would find myself standing in a heavily wooded forest, in the remains of a bombed out city, a sweltering jungle, or an arid desert.  And every time, there was always something after me.  I have been chased down by packs of ravenous wolf Mutts, psychotic Career tributes, flocks of eagles with razor sharp talons and beaks, and swarms of flesh eating insects.  No matter how long or how fast I run, they always catch up to me.   I wake up just as their sharp talons, their swords, their teeth bite into my skin to find myself in the lavish sleeping car of the Tribute train, not my own bed back in 5.  Then I would go back to sleep and that infinite loop of being pursued and killed will repeat itself.

“Ada? Are you alright?”

 It takes me a minute to realize that I'm crying. My hands grip my hair as I stare down at my plate, trembling. To my horror, everyone is staring at me, probably wondering what is wrong.

Someone's hand tightens itself around my shoulder. I scream, jumping out of my seat and pressing myself up against the wall, scurrying away from the table until I am almost to the door. Ricci pulls his hand away, eyes wide with shock. Ravi and Kelvin also stare at me.

  I try to apologize, but I can't speak. My mouth flaps like a beached fish as I shake uncontrollably. I start rocking on the heels of my feet.

 Ravi gets up from the table. “Ada, do you think we can talk in the corridor, privately,” he asks.

  I stare at the ground, unsure of what to say.

“I think it will be best if we talk privately,” Ravi says, “go to the sitting room car.  I'll meet you there.”

I go to the compartment with the sitting room and take a seat on one of the overstuffed sofas. As I wait for Ravi, I rock slightly in my seat, fiddling with the hem of my dress.  My hands are shaking, my stomach is churning, and my heart is pounding against my ribs.  I feel sick knowing that I did something to get me in trouble.  Just like every other incident in my life that I caused.

Ravi enters the car a moment later, closing the door behind him. He doesn't join me on the sofa. Instead, he remains by the door.  I brace myself for a possible lecture on how my behavior isn’t appropriate.  One that, in my experience, will end with me crying and him shouting some more.  

 “Has it always been like this,” he asks.  I’m almost startled by his tone.  It doesn’t come out as a shout.  He speaks softly and gently, like a worried teacher who is concerned for his student’s welfare.  

“What do you mean?”

“The shaking, the way you rock back and forth in place, and the adverse reaction to touch. Has it always been that way?”

 I stare ahead, unwilling to face Ravi. “Yeah,” I explain. “I don't know why. I've always been this way.”

“Even as a child?”

 I suck in a deep breath and clench my eyes shut before nodding my head.  “Especially as a child.  It used to be really bad.  It’s like I couldn’t control myself.  I got into a lot of trouble for it. I- I remember this one time, this girl in my kindergarten class gave me a hug. She didn’t even ask me if I wanted one.  She just came up from behind and grabbed me…”

I shudder at the memory.  Although I have forgotten her name, I can still feel that iron-like hold she had on me.  It was like she was wrapping a pair of strong, iron rings around my chest.  No matter how much I struggled, she wouldn’t let go.  When I begged her to stop, she just say, “but I like you!”  

“So I kicked her,” I finish.  

Invoking that memory seems to have opened floodgates for more.  The events that stemmed from that day, things that I was sure I have buried a long time ago, return in vivid detail.  

I grabbed my hair and rocked back and forth. “The teacher was so mad at me,” I choked out, “she suspended me for a day.  After I came back, the kids at school wouldn't let me live it down. They always said something on the lines of, ‘don’t hug Ada or else she’ll go beserk’ all throughout elementary and middle school.”

“Do you still want to kick someone every time they touch you?”

I shake my head. “It hasn't happened in years. Dad told me that I needed to control myself. It took a long time, but we managed to work it out.  It became more manageable as I got older and could figure things out for myself. You know, what works and what doesn’t.  I just try to avoid being touched whenever I can. Like, instead of a handshake, I'll give a wave or something like that. Or if someone tries to touch me, I'll get away.”

“What happens if you can't get away?”

I shrug my shoulders. Then I think back to yesterday. “Close my eyes.”  

"And do you do anything else?”

“Well... Dad always said that if I was close to a meltdown, I needed to close my eyes and think of something happy. He called it 'going to the happy place.' I don't really see it that way. I just block out what I see and hear. When it gets really stressful, I mentally place myself in a white, soundproofed room.  It helps.”

“You have a smart dad.”

“Thanks.” Something doesn't sit right with me. Why is this man, who I have only known for a day, so invested in learning about me? I know he is a mentor, but I thought his duties only extended to doling out advice and getting sponsors for his tributes. I glance over at Ravi. He's still standing at the door. “Why do you ask?”

“You're going to be meeting your stylist and prep team today, and unfortunately, they have a hands-on approach to their job.”

"Ah damn," I mumble. I can already imagine a flock of garishly dressed freaks surrounding me, poking me and prodding me with talons painted in gold and pink and orange. I wrap my arms tightly around my shoulders, trying to contain my shaking.

“Ada, listen to me,” Ravi commands “you don't have to get along with your prep team, but you do need to cooperate with them if you have any chance of making a good impression for the sponsors. I realize this could be a problem, but I need you to remain calm. Whatever happens, I need you to go to your happy place. Can you do that?”

I bite down on my lip, hard, and reluctantly nod my head. Before the train can even enter the mountain tunnel that connects the Capital to the rest of Panem, I am bracing myself for the world of sensory overload-induced hurt that is waiting on the other side.

 

* * *

 

“Could you please stop talking? It's getting too loud.”

The prep team ignores my request and continues their work on me. While it hasn't been as bad as I imagined, being trapped in the tiny station at the Remake Center with these weirdos for company still really sucks. In just a few hours, I have been stripped naked, scrubbed down, and hosed off. They took my glasses and my house key necklace and I haven't seen either since arriving.

And don't get me started on the body waxing. Speaking from experience, being electrocuted is more pleasant than having all of your body hair plied off with strips of paper coated in hot wax.

I tried tuning out the prep team, as Ravi suggested. And it worked for a little while. But eventually, the prep team barged their way into my quiet place and never left. I managed to avoid a meltdown by putting myself in a new happy place and staying there until they catch up before moving on to the next one. It's not ideal, and I never want to have to do that again, but it helps.  At least I didn’t kick anybody.  Yet.  

“All done.  See, that wasn’t so bad,” cooes Claudia, a woman with so many purple and pink gems studded in her face that hurts to even look at her, as she rubs me down with a greasy lotion that I desperately want to wash off of me.  

“You aren’t as bad as the girl Vitus and I had to deal with last year,” pipes Junia, a young woman with the kind of hairstyle that is long and white with blue streaks on one side, and completely bald on the other, as she plucks my eyebrows.  “I was so happy when we got transferred here.  Remember her, sweetie?  That District 12 girl?”

“I remember her,” chimes Vitus, a man whose long, braided lavender hair and high-pitched voice could easily make him pass for a girl, pausing briefly to give Junia a kiss on the cheek before handing me a rob.  I snatch it out of his pale, perfectly manicured hands. “She was so filthy with all that coal dust!  It took forever to clean her up!”  

  “Not only that, but she had the biggest unibrow I had ever seen,” Junia continues, “she literally kept cussing us out every time we tried to get rid of all that hair.  It was like trying to give a makeover to a bear.  I didn’t even think District 12 swore all that much.  I hear that 2, 4, and 7 curse a lot.  But not 12 for some reason.”  

 I’m pretty sure it’s bad manners to speak ill of the dead.  It feels wrong to hear these people badmouth a girl who has been dead for nearly a year.  A girl who, if I so remember, ended up on the wrong end of a Career’s sword.  When they are done, the three of them stand back to admire their handiwork.  I wrap the robe around me, tightly, and feverishly wishing that this would all be over soon.  

“Not bad,” comments Claudia, tapping her chin with a glittery, purple nail, “it’s a shame about the hair though.  You would look so pretty with long hair.  Especially in a nice chestnut.”

"I don’t know, I like it myself,” says Junia, “it makes her look like a pixie.”

"Well remember, Drusilla’s the one who has the final say,” Vitus says, “for all we know, she’ll want to do something radically new.  Oh, almost forgot…” he reaches into the pocket of his smock and pulls out my glasses.  I snatch them away from him and put them on.  “I wouldn’t get too attached to them though.  She’ll probably make you switch them out for contacts.”

Before I can ask what these “contacts” are, the door swings open and the woman they call Drusilla strides in.  I instantly recognize her from past Games.  With her sharp facial features, shiny, iridescent green hair, and wide-set black eyes that are outlined with swirls of green and black paint resembling antenna, Drusilla closely resembles an insect than a human.  

She motions for the prep team to leave, and once we are alone, studies me with those black eyes.  I shiver, clinging tightly to the robe.  

“Stand up,” she commands in a gravelly tone.  I was expecting her voice to be chirpy, like a cricket.  Instead she talks like someone who has spent half her life smoking cigarettes and the other half screaming orders at her subordinates.  “And take that robe off.”

“She’s just doing her job,” I remind myself as I let the robe fall to my feet, “she’s just doing her job.  She’s just doing her job.”  And then I cover myself with my arms as best as I can.  Not that there’s much to cover in the chest region.  The girls at school have teased me for having the “tits of a ten-year-old boy”.  Meanwhile, Drusilla is circling me, prodding me with a needle-like fingernail that leaves cold spots on my skin.  

I close my eyes and think of something else.  I know I have seen Drusilla before.  She’s been a Hunger Games stylist for as long as I remember. She was probably working back when Dad was my age.  But not as a District 5 stylist.  

“Didn’t she style the District 1 tributes,” I ask myself.  Now that I think about it, yes, yes she did.  So, how did Drusilla get demoted to styling the District 5 tributes?  I’ve heard of this other stylist, Tigris, who was fired a few years back.  Something about her being too surgically altered to be on television.  But unlike Tigris, who actually resembled a human-tiger hybrid towards the end of her career, Drusilla still looks like a person.  So, if it’s not surgery, then what?    

“Not good.  Not good at all,” Drusilla mutters under her breath, tapping her chin with her sharp, shiny black fingernail, “I was expecting someone taller.  You have the right figure for a model, but not the height. My couture would look better on a tall model.”

Um… sorry?  I’m wondering if it’s not too late to convince Kelvin to trade stylists.  At least he’s taller than me.  That should make her happy.

“Whatever happened to your hair,” she asks, gesturing to my head.  I reach up and nervously run a hand through the short, bristly strands.

“I… uh, I cut my own hair,” I admit in a hushed voice.  

“Dreadful, absolutely dreadful,” exclaims Drusilla, “there’s absolutely nothing I could do with this.”

I bite down on my lip, resisting any urge to break down and cry in front of this wretched woman as she continues to survey me.  Her words sting more than any electrical shock.  Maybe that’s why she got demoted.  District 1 got fed up with her antics and replaced her with a likable stylist.  

“You aren’t completely hopeless,” she concludes, “you won’t be the best looking tribute at the Opening Ceremonies.  But I think, given what I have, I could make this work.”  

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, I find myself standing with Kelvin, our stylists, and our prep teams in ground floor of the Remake Center.  The vast, stable-like level is buzzing with activity as stylists ready their tributes for their grand entrance.  My head is spinning as I take in my surroundings.  This is more chaotic than District 5 on Reaping Day.  

I rub my eyes, taking care not to smudge the bright pink lightning bolt painted on my face.  Drusilla confiscated my glasses.  She said they took away from her “artistic vision”, or some rubbish like that.  Instead, she gave me a pair of flimsy contact lenses that burn my eyes. 

Kelvin and I are wearing matching costumes, something Drusilla and Kelvin’s stylist, a long-time veteran for 5 named Fabricus, came up with.  They’re these tight, white jumpsuits made out of a rubbery material that clings to my skin.  It’s difficult to walk in them.  Glowing, neon pink and orange wires run up the sleeves, the pant legs, and the high, upturned collars.  To my utter embarrassment, there is a deep v-neck on my suit that exposes my torso.  I glare at Kelvin.  At least he is more covered up.  And his suit has blue and green wires instead of pink.

Contrary to what she said earlier, Drusilla found something to do to my hair.  She had the prep team dye my bangs hot pink and styled it into a faux hawk.  Kelvin has a pompadour with electric blue highlights and with a blue lightning bolt painted on the right side of his face.

“Put your arms down,” grovels Drusilla.  “They’ll want you to smile and wave as your chariot passes by.”

“At least you aren’t District 12,” Fabricus adds, nodding in the direction of the District 12 tributes, who are being loaded into their chariot.  They’re naked and covered in a thick layer of black coal dust.  I avert my eyes, but notice that Kelvin is gawking at the girl, who is also making an effort to cover herself.  That poor girl.  

Drusilla and Fabricus help us into our chariot.  I nearly trip over the white, rubber, high-heeled boots that makes me six inches taller.  They continue fussing over us, straightening out our suits, adding the finishing touches to our hair and makeup, until they are satisfied with their work.  They step back, leaving me alone with Kelvin.

“What do you think they were thinking,” Kelvin asks.  He tugs on the collar of his suit.  “This doesn’t feel very 5-ish.  This looks like something the District 3 kids would wear.”  

Traditionally, the chariot costumes represent the District industry of each tribute.  Because Kelvin and I are from District 5, we have to wear something related to power and electricity.  In past years, our tributes have been paraded in clothes resembling some high-fashion version of a solar panel, a wind turbine, or some horrendous remake of the power plant uniforms.  It’s… average compared to some of the other Districts.  Personally, I always hoped that there would be a stylist who can make a costume that generates static electricity.  Then tributes can shoot lightning bolts out of their hands during the parade.  But that’s just a pipe dream.  I doubt Drusilla or Fabricus have the brains to create something that awesome.    

Kelvin and I glance over at the District 3 tributes, who are chatting in their chariot.  They have skintight jumpsuits like ours.  But instead of neon wires, their shiny black suits are decorated with glowing, bright blue designs that mimic a circuit board pattern.  While we look ridiculous, they look cool.  

I shrug my shoulders.  “Neon lights?” I suggest.  I can’t explain the make up or hairstyle choices though.  Aesthetic value, maybe?  Who knows.  What I do know is that in a few minutes, my dad and Herman are going to see this and they are going to wonder what in the name of Jove happened to me.

Music blares from loudspeakers installed all over the vast stables.  I reach up and cover my ears, only to lower them when I catch Drusilla glaring at me, shaking her head in disapproval.  The giant doors swing open and the District 1 tributes roll out to uproarious applause.

The District 1 tributes are stunning, as usual.  Even though they are wearing nothing more than some skimpy, bejeweled outfits and a ton of feathers, the District 1 duo smiles and wave giant, white feather fans at the crowd.  

After them are District 2.  Even though they are make up to resemble granite statues, a homage to their masonry industry, the addition of gold-plated armor, helmets topped with crimson feathers, and spears make them look menacing.  They are here, and they are ready for battle.

The other chariots roll out before the horses on ours begin to trot for the door.  I latch onto the rail in front of me, refusing to budge.  The cheers of the crowds are even louder than in the stables.  

“C’mon Ada, give them a wave,” hollers Kelvin.  He’s waving his arms over his head at the spectators lining the streets.  “They love us!”

“No, they love the District 4 tributes,” I yell.  And it’s true.  They’re made up like a sea king and queen, wearing spiked crowns of gold, shimmery gowns that mimic the rippling ocean waters, and a lot of seashell jewelry.  The girl is blowing kisses to the crowd, who are scrambling for more, while her partner flexes his bulging biceps.  Obviously, their attire is meant to ride on the coat tails of Finnick Odair’s Victory last year.  The other tributes are mere peasants compared to them.  District 4 will reign supreme again.  

"We love you Kevin,” shrieks a gaggle of girls hanging over the sides of the avenue.

 “And I love you too, random Capital girls,” Kelvin hoots, not caring for a minute that they butchered his name.  He whispers, “seriously Ada.  These guys might want to sponsor us.”

I catch a glimpse of Kelvin and I as we are broadcast on the television screens set up in the stands.  The neon wires on our costumes illuminate our faces, creating halos of blue and pink light that stand out in stark contrast to the night sky.  The screens focus on our faces for a moment before moving on to District 6, who have just rolled out.  

Then I look up to see tier upon tier of the garishly dressed Capitolites bordering the avenue.  The whole city must have shown up to witness this live.  Panic takes hold as I grip onto the chariot.  The music, the colours, the all-encompassing chaos is becoming too much.  The mountain range that borders the Capital seems to hold all the sound in, amplifying it.  I shut my eyes.

“Don’t freak out.  Don’t freak out.  If you freak out, you’ll die,” I whisper under my breath.  “The whole country is watching.  You can’t make yourself a bigger ass than you already have.”

I have to make a good impression for these sponsors.  If I live to see another day in the Arena, I might need to rely on their generosity to continue surviving.  

 I raise my free hand and give them a shy wave.  The crowd continues to go wild.  If not for me, the for the other tributes as we pass by.  Many are chanting the names of their favorite tributes. Several let out ear piercing shrieks of delight when I flash them a small smile.  I think.

Finally, the chariots pull up to the City Circle, which is paved with white stones and a large red and gold mosaic of the Capital seal: an eagle with it’s wings outstretched, clutching a bundle of arrows in its talons, and flanked by two laurel leaves.  The presidential mansion is huge!  It’s even bigger than the apartments and powerplants back home.  The mansion curves around the Circle, acting as a sort of border that closes in on the tributes as we arrive.  Torches set up around the perimeter of the illuminate the magnificent marble and glass facade of the building.

The music and the crowds cheers and applause quickly die down when President Snow approaches the balcony overhead.  All eyes are on him when he gives the traditional welcoming speech.  The cameras cut to reaction shots of the tributes as we watch.  I noticed that between the two Districts with the light-up costumes, District 3 has the most screen time.  Not that I mind.  They look so much cooler than us, and they are clearly energized by the crowd.  Besides, no one wants to see someone who is on the verge of a panic attack.  But as usual, the cameras are more focused on the Careers.  Especially 1 and 4.

Finally, the Opening Ceremonies ends with one last lap around the circle before taking us to the Training Center.  

As soon as the chariot comes to a halt, I jump off and bypass pass the prep team, who are crowding around us, ready to help.  Only I don’t want their help.  I want to get out of here and go somewhere that quiet and not slathered in bright colors.  I stop in my tracks, almost tripping over my boots, when I realized that I have no idea where the stairs are.  A couple of tributes snicker at me as I stand there, unsure of where to go.  

“There you are!  Don’t you ever think about running off unless you tell us,” snipes Prospero as he marches up to me in teetering, high heeled boots.  “You can get lost in the Training Center.”

I mumble a quick apology before asking, “where are the stairs?”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, the Training Center, with its massive tower block that houses the tributes and their respective entourage and vast network of underground floors where we’re going to be training for the next three days, doesn’t need stairs.  They have a glassed-in elevator that offers a panoramic view of the Capital.  

Needless to say, I am feeling really stupid as the elevator skyrockets us to our designated fifth floor apartment.  

To be fair though, I use the stairs almost all of the time.  While my apartment building has an elevator, it’s been broken for the last five years, stalled somewhere between the basement and the lobby.  Mr. LaPorte says that he doesn’t have the time, the expertise, or the funding to get it fixed.  

Despite his blow up regarding my wandering off, Prospero is in good spirits.  He heaps praise on Kelvin, rambling on about how he impressed with his attitude during the chariot ride.  With his smile, his waving, and his flirting with the Capital girls, Kelvin surely has sponsors lined up.  

As for me, Prospero just says, “don’t fear, Ada.  We’ll have that head of yours held up high, smiling, and giving the Capital a wonderful show by the end of the week.  You’ll have a legion of sponsors once I’m through with you.”

 I think Prospero is delusional.  This legion of sponsors he goes on about must have already found their tributes.  Despite this, I give him points for being encouraging.  

 

* * *

Prospero calls me for dinner just as I am ready to take apart the hair-drying panel in my new bathroom.  Not out of malice.  I wanted to see how such a device can dry out my hair with an electrical current without shocking me.  The last time I was electrocuted, taking apart and rebuilding a toaster that Mr. Babbitt was going to throw out for the record, my hair was burnt to a charred, smoking mess that Dad had to shave off so it would grow back evenly.  

 The Capital may be filled with all kinds of wrong, but their technology is nothing like I have ever seen before.  Who would have guessed that there was a panel there ?  No, wait!  Who would have guessed that there was even a hundred kinds of shampoo?  Or that if you wanted to dine in your room, you would just order what you want from a menu into a special microphone and it would appear in mere minutes.    

If I had all the time in the world, I would just stay in that room and play with all these gadgets and see how they work.  

Dinner is a noisy, chaotic affair.  Lianna shows up with a sour mood on her face.  Although Ravi doesn’t explain why, I had a feeling it was because we didn’t make as big of an impression during the Opening Ceremonies as she had hoped.  

Men and women in crisp white uniforms wait on the sides, and offer glasses of wine throughout the evening.  I’ve only tried wine once before.  On accident.  I was nine years old and attending a wedding for one of Dad’s work friends when I, thinking that it was fruit juice, accepted a glass of wine.  Thankfully, I spat it out as soon as I realized that dry, tart liquid wasn’t juice.  But Dad was fuming that someone would give his underage daughter alcohol and we left before the newly married couple got a chance to cut the cake.  The Capital wine is even stronger than the sample I had.  It makes my head spin and I decline any further offers.  On the other hand, Kelvin is slurring his words and giggling at nothing by his third glass.  

I find it difficult to eat with so many people around.  I don’t really like how these silent servers just stand and watch.  When Kelvin asks why they don’t talk, Prospero explains that they are avoxes, traitors to the Capital who have had their tongues cut out and forced into lifelong servitude.  Suddenly, I lose my appetite.  There’s something unnerving about having an extension of the Capital’s power, their ability to force someone into a fate worse than death, constantly present.  I can only manage a mouthful of the shellfish bisque, the pasta with the spicy meat sauce, and the lamb smothered in an herb rub before I start to feel nauseous.  Even after two days in Capital custody, I still can’t get used to how rich their food is.  The tongueless waiters doesn’t help either.

Mealtimes are the one time we can reconvene and discuss Game strategies.  But with Lianna’s bad attitude, Kelvin’s drunkenness, and me trying my best to keep it together, poor Ravi can’t really do his job.  His words fall on deaf or inattentive ears.  By the time dessert, a richly decorated cake with pink and blue sparklers sticking out of the mound of fluffy white icing, arrives, he has given up for the night.  He looks frustrated, grabbing his hair with one hand and drumming his fingers against the table top.  He must be as eager for the night to be over as I am.

As everyone starts to vacate the dining room, I ask Ravi if we can talk privately.  Ravi motions for the avoxes to leave.  

“Thank you,” I whisper, “for earlier.”

For the first time since this morning, Ravi returns a smile.  I think he’s glad that there is someone who appreciates him.  


	3. Escalation, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I silently calculate how those percentages translate in the Arena. If my calculations are correct, that means two of us will die from some sort of infection and five from dehydration. Still, sixteen of us are going to die in a violent manner. I’m really not feeling good about this knowing that I still have a greater chance of having a spear skewered into my gut than getting gangrene._
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> It's the first day of training, and Ada finds an ally.

* * *

 

 

At a quarter to ten the following morning, the first day of training, Prospero drops Kelvin and I off at the basement gymnasium where the training sessions will be held.  There are already several of tributes milling about.  The Careers huddle together in a group while the other tributes are either off to themselves or paired up with their District partners.  More tributes begin to trickle in.  All of them are accompanied by their escorts.  Despite its cavernous space, the room feels too crowded.

 

I take a seat on one of the benches pressed against the wall and wait for the training sessions to begin.  At this time, Dad would be home after another night shift at the Snow Dam.  It hurts to think about him, drinking coffee alone in that tiny kitchen.  That last morning we shared together feels so far away.  How is he?  Is he trying to keep himself together, or has he started to fall apart like what happened after Mother died?  

 

And then there is Herman.

 

A nauseating sensation wells up in my head, my stomach, and my chest.  The mere thought of being unable to see him makes me physically ill.  I bite down on my lip and squeeze my eyes shut until the only thing I can feel is the headache.  

 

The whole day feels wrong.  Right now, I should be sitting in my third-period physics class, sitting in the creaky desk in the far left corner of the room, right underneath the map of Panem pinned to the wall, and taking notes on Maxwell’s equations while Herman is sitting beside me and doodling in his notebook.  Not here.  I shouldn’t be here.  It doesn’t matter if I woke up at six in the morning and had coffee and toast for breakfast: if I am not in school, then it feels like my whole day has been thrown out of balance.  

 

My hands reach up to my neck, but I can’t find that house key necklace that should be looped around it.  Then I remember that the keys are still in Capital custody.  Damnit.  What would it take to ask for them back?  I know it feels weird, asking for something as trivial as a pair of house keys back, but they are all that I have left to remember home.  I have always worn that necklace, and without it, I feel naked.  

* * *

 

At ten o’clock, a tall woman dressed in a black uniform with the Capital seal embroidered on the front comes up and tells us to form a circle around her.  Once we are in formation, she introduces herself as Atala, the head trainer.  

 

Atala emphasizes a need to learn survival skills.  “In two weeks, twenty three of you will be dead,” she begins, “one of you will be alive.  Who that is depends on how well you pay attention over the next three days, particularly to what I’m about to say.”

 

Then she goes over the rules.  Rule number 1, no fighting the other tributes.  If you feel the need to hone your fighting skills, or to let loose some pent up aggression, you can practice on one of the trainers.  And that’s kind of it.  You're free to do whatever you want or go to any station as long as you don’t beat up another tribute.  

 

She finishes her spiel with some grim statistics: “Everybody wants to grab a sword, but most of you will die from natural causes.  10% from infection, 20% from dehydration.  Exposure can kill as easily as a knife.” 

 

I silently calculate how those percentages translate in the Arena.  If my calculations are correct, that means two of us will die from some sort of infection and five from dehydration.  Still, sixteen of us are going to die in a violent manner.  I’m really not feeling good about this knowing that I still have a greater chance of having a spear skewered into my gut than getting gangrene. 

 

The circle dispenses.  Despite Atala’s warning, most of the tributes head to the weapons racks, picking out bows or swords or spears, and start getting their first lessons.  

 

 “Do you think we should team up,” asks Kelvin.  Looking around, I notice that the kids in the poorer Districts are either alone or paired up with their partner.  Actually, most of the Districts are working together.  I can’t recall Ravi and Lianna advocating that Kelvin and I team up.  Maybe it slipped their minds or they realized that we would make for a terrible alliance.

 

“I would prefer to work alone,” I whisper.  Group assignments were always a disaster for me.  Nothing ever gets done when you are working with four other kids with conflicting interests and ideas and no idea how to compromise.  And more often than not, I was usually left doing most of the work.  Kelvin catches my drift.

 

“Suit yourself,” he says as he heads towards the sword station, which is swarming with tributes, “I’ve always wanted to learn how to use one of these!”

 

Instead of weapons, I decide to start off at the edible plants station.  It consists of two large computer monitors that are placed back to back.  The giant blue screen flickers to life the moment I lay a finger on the monitor.  A screen comes up with a tutorial of how the station works.  One link leads you to an encyclopedia of edible plants: their environment, what they look like, their nutritional value, etc.  The other link sends you to a memory game featuring cards with images of the plants on them.  The object of this game is to identify all the edible plants within a certain time frame.  If you chose a deadly plant, then it’s game over.

 

Of course, what better way to remind you of the consequences of making the wrong decision than for the screen to go black.

 

I start reading and then re-reading the entries.  As soon as I feel ready, I start the memory game.  There are no words, just pictures.  I clear my mind and block out all surrounding distractions.  My eyes are on the screen and my ears are deaf to the world.  I let my fingers fly over the cards.  Yellow squares pop up, then fade, with each selection.  Quickly, I select as many plants as I can recognize until the sixty-second timer runs out.  

 

The buzzer sounds, and the screen flashes my score and a congratulations for a job well done.  I have managed to match up ninety-two plant pairs.  I stand back from the screen, frowning.  Is that a good score?  Somehow, a “good job” message just doesn’t sound good enough.  I glance around the station for a trainer to ask when I notice the others.

 

Three tributes are standing right behind of me.  I can see them reflected in the left lense of my glasses.  A boy and two girls.  Not Careers; they’re too skinny.  Their faces that lean, drawn look of someone who has never had a good meal in their life.  The way they are flocked together reminds me of the vultures that would be seen circling above Zeus’ Toilet, the poorest part of town, waiting for someone to drop dead so that they can swoop down and feast on the remains before the Peacekeepers chase them away.  I tense up, gripping the edges of the monitor.  

 

One of the girls lets out a low whistle.  “Sweet jumpin’ Jehoshaphat,” she says in a heavy accent that makes her mispronounce her words.

   

“I’ve heard of these machines,” says her companion, a shorter girl with the ashen skin and long, dark hair of District 3, “my uncle was part of the team that developed them for the Capital.  If you score higher than 80, you better your odds of survival.  It’s, like, supposed to show the Gamemakers how smart you are.”

 

I freeze up.  It feels like the other three tributes are edging closer towards me, cornering me at this station.  The constricting feeling returns and I shut my eyes, willing that these kids would just go away.  Somewhere behind me, one of them pipes up with, “hey, you wanna…”

 

The loud, brassy drone of a gong drowns out the rest of the question.  It echoes loudly throughout the gymnasium.  It’s lunchtime.  I clamp my hands over my ears and make run towards the dining hall.

* * *

 

I’m the first one to reach the dining hall.  Once inside, I grab a plate from one of the carts and load it with whatever is available.  Then I sit down at a small table that is pushed up against the farthest corner of the room with my back against the others.  

 

It’s far away enough that I can tune out whatever sound is going on.  Unlike the dining hall at school, which is usually filled to the brim with four grade levels worth of students, the hall here isn’t as loud.  The only noise comes from the Careers table as they boast about their training feats or how they are going to break a record for most tributes killed in a single Hunger Games.  Sickening, the whole lot of them.  

 

“Hi!”

 

The voice comes so suddenly, like an alarm, that I jump out of my seat.

 

“Whoa!  Sorry about that.  I should have known you were the skittish type.”

 

I tilt my head to the side to find myself staring face to face with the District 3 girl who was watching me at the plant station.  She the kind of wide grin on her face that makes me want to grab my plate and eat my lunch in the gymnasium.  To my horror, she is sitting just a couple of inches away from me.  One wrong move, and I could be rubbing my elbow against hers.  I let out a slight shudder.

 

“Can you please sit back,” I tensely whisper, “I-I’m kind of claustrophobic.”

 

“Uh, sure,” the girl says as she scoots her chair back so that there is at least a foot of space between us.  It’s not enough, but how do you tell someone to move three feet back?  She sticks out her hand.  “I’m Cordelia by the way.”

 

I stare at the hand.

 

”You’re supposed to shake it and then say who you are, silly,” she replies, laughing.  The more time I spend with her, the more I dislike her.  

 

I give her a shy wave.  

 

“Alright, good enough,” Cordelia says with a shrug, “not much of a talker, are you?”

 

I shake my head.

 

“Figures.  Well, hey, if this isn’t too much to ask, I was watching you at the plants station.  And I was thinking… and I know this might sound sudden, and I know this is just the first day of training and all, but do you want to form an alliance with me?  So far, it’s just me and Wynonna.  We can always use a few more people.”

 

As rude as it may be, I shake my head.  No, I don’t want to join an alliance.  

 

“You sure,” asks Cordelia, “I mean, we have a better chance against the Careers if there’s more in the group.  You know, strength in numbers and all that.  I mean, I’m good at making traps.  I could do something to make it deadlier.  Wynonna’s killed livestock, and you know edible plants.  We’ll be invincible.”

 

I shake my head again.  No means no.  

 

“Positive?”

 

How many times do I have to repeat myself?  No, I am not joining an alliance.  I don’t even want to join one!  What good will it be when the numbers dwindle down to the single digits?  What happens within there are six of us left and we all turn against each other?  I’ve seen Hunger Games where this happened.  Alliances have fallen apart due to mistrust among their ranks, and they usually end with a bunch of dead kids.  Well, I’m not going to put myself in that situation.  

 

“No!” I snap.  My voice comes out in a harsh tone.  “And I mean it.”

 

Cordelia lets out a sight.  “Suit yourself,” she says.  As she walks away, I notice she does it with her head down low.  Did she want me in her alliance that badly?  I look down at my plate with its half-eaten sandwich and untouched grapes and potato crisps.  Maybe the way I said no was rude, but at the same time, I stand by my decision.  Alliances can only mean trouble.  And Cordelia was being pushy.

 

Besides, I never did well in group settings.

* * *

 

As soon as Kelvin and I sit down for dinner, Prospero asks us how training went.  Kelvin seems a little shaken and upset as he reaches for a bottle of some fizzy orange drink.

 

“I suck at sword fighting,” he moans before chugging down the bottle dry and moving on to the next one, “that District 2 girl was laughing at me when the trainer knocked me down.”

 

“Did you try the other stations,” Ravi asks as he starts serving himself salad, “you can’t just learn how to use weapons, Kelvin.  I think Atala would have mentioned it by now.”

 

“She did,” Kelvin admits, “but… look, I’ll try the other stations tomorrow.  I just wanted to learn how to use a sword.  I’ve never done it before, and it’s one of those things that I just couldn’t pass up.”  

 

Ravi lets out a sigh as Kelvin downs another bottle of orange soda.  Looking around, I notice that the avoxes are just waiting at the sides.  Ever since we sat down for dinner, not one of them has offered any alcohol.  Considering what happened last night, I am wondering if Ravi put a stop to it.  

 

While Ravi is reprimanding Kelvin for not trying any of the survival stations, Lianna turns to me and asks, “what about you?  You learn anything today?”

 

“Edible plants,” I mumble.

 

“Speak up, Ada.  I can’t get you a sponsor if I can’t hear you.”

 

Louder this time, I repeat myself.  Lianna looks happy as she sits back in her chair.  “I remember those stations.  What score did you get on that matching game they have you do?”

 

“Ninety-two pairs.”

 

Lianna breaks out into a grin.  “Finally, I have a tribute that isn’t completely hopeless,” she says.  Ravi and Prospero glance over at each other, and I swear I can hear Prospero say, “did she really just say that?”

 

I don’t like Lianna at all, but I really don’t have much choice.  She’s the only living female Victor in District 5, and that entitles her to be my mentor.  I glance over at Ravi, who is drilling Kelvin on survival tactics.  Kelvin is getting increasingly frustrated the more he is questioned.  But at least Ravi treats Kelvin well.

 

“So, what else happened,” asks Lianna.

 

“Built a fire at another station,” I said, keeping my head down, “wasn’t too hard.  It’s like lockpicking.  You need a lot of patience and the right tools.”

 

Lianna continues to smile.  I don’t think I like it when she smiles.  She always did that whenever she killed someone.  The cameras during her Games always made a point to do a close up on her whenever she killed.  I know Lianna won’t hurt me, but I still don’t trust her smile.  “Have you thought about joining an alliance.”

 

I shake my head.  “Don’t want to.  I never worked well in groups.  The District 3 girl asked, but I declined.”

   

“What?  Are you kidding me,” screeches Lianna.  I shrink down into my seat.  Her shrill voice echoes throughout the apartment, and I think everyone on the floors above and below us can hear what’s going on.  “How do you expect to fend for yourself in the Arena?  You can’t do it alone, you know!  Careers are more likely to target lone tributes than the ones in packs.  They don’t even go after the alliances until all the loners are gone!”

 

Lianna’s screaming leaves me shaking.  I try to clamp my hands but she snaps, “don’t you even think about covering your ears!  I’m trying to save your life, and I can’t do that if you aren’t going to listen.  You wanna die?  Be my guest.  I’d suggest running to the Cor-”

 

“That’s enough, Lianna,” Ravi says sternly, glaring at her.  “Why don’t you just go calm yourself down.”  

 

Lianna stomps off to her room.  As soon as she is gone, Ravi asks, “Ada, are you alright?”

 

I break down.  For a long time, all I can do is cry and rock back and forth.  “I-is she r-right?” I choke out, gasping between words, “will th-the C-Careers gonna h-h-hunt me down w-w-when I’m a-a-alone?”  Just the thought of that psychotic Career pack from my nightmares becoming a reality has me breaking down into more tears.  

 

“Ada,” Ravi says in that same calm voice, “Ada, I know you don’t like people touching you.  But do you need help going back to your room?”

 

I shake my head, still crying.  

   

“Do you think you can get up?”

 

I do just that.  I almost trip, but I make it back to my room.  When I get there, I collapse onto the bed and start crying.  The door closes shut.  Ravi disappears into the bathroom before returning with a damp wash cloth.  He pulls up a chair next to the bed and hands me the wash cloth.  

 

“I apologize for Lianna’s tantrum,” says Ravi in a voice that says he means it.  “I don’t know what exactly got into her today.  She’s been in this mood all day and… look, what she said is inexcusable.  You explained why you didn’t want to join an alliance, so Lianna should not have blown up at you for that.  She may have been in an alliance during she Games, but that doesn’t mean she would make her tributes do what she did.”

 

I don’t say anything.  I just wipe my eyes with the cold cloth.  When I think I have it together, I ask him, “is Lianna right?  Will the Careers hunt me because I’ll be alone?”

 

“Truthfully, it depends,” Ravi says, “Career packs normally just chase after whoever they find first.  It doesn’t matter to them if it’s an alliance or a lone tribute.  Careers won’t make a hit list because everyone is going to die sooner or later.”

 

I bury my head in my hands.  “So I’m dead either way?”

 

“It’s just a matter of how long you want to prolong the inevitable.  You can stave off the inevitable by-”

 

"What’s the point?” I interrupt, “I’ll be dead soon.  I have a greater chance of getting killed by another tribute than anything else.”

 

“Ada,” sighs Ravi.  He repeats my name under his breath several more times before continuing.  “If you keep up that attitude, you’ll end up dead on the first day.  Now if you can just-”

   

“But-” I protest.  Ravi holds his hand up to shush me.  I bite my lip.

 

“Listen to me, Ada Linus.  I’m here to help you.  If you can just listen, you won’t end up as a Bloodbath casualty.”

 

I stare at him expecting him to go into a long spiel on how I can survive if I take my training seriously.  

   

“There is a day and a half left for training, with the afternoon of the third day designated for the private sessions with the Gamemakers,” explains Ravi, “I want you to learn as many survival skills as you can, plus a weapon.  Based on your size, I don’t recommend using a sword or a mace.  You’re better off with a throwing knife or a slingshot, which I might add, have killed people and are, thus, effective weapons.  However, I don’t want you to spend a day learning how to use a weapon.  I need you to learn how to hunt, fish, build a shelter and a fire, find water, and tie a knot.  If you have time, I would also recommend camouflage.  Careers aren’t the brightest and they always expect to see what they want you to see.  If you can learn all these skills, it will greatly increase your chances of survival.  The Arena can be as dangerous as a tribute, so you need to know how to face it head on and adapt.”

 

Ravi continues on and on about what I need to do, but his voice fades to a light droning sound.  It’s low enough that I can tune him out as I pick at my nails.  One day just doesn’t feel like enough.  I need more time to study everything.  I have never worked well with a time crunch.  I always hated it when my teachers would schedule a test for the next day without giving the class at least a three-day warning.  There is too much I have to learn, and I doubt I can do well in the Arena.  

 

Then I realize that he has stopped talking.  I look up to find him facing me.  

 

His eyes scan the length of my arms and the raised, interconnecting network of bright red burn scars that resemble glowing wires against against my golden beige skin.  The scars are from mishaps that stemmed from every experiment I ever conducted.  Working with electricity, you would expect to get shocked or burned or electrocuted every once in a while.  Although it hurt to receive them, the scars stand for something I learned: how an alternating current works, how to rebuild and repair a toaster, a radio, and a hairdryer, how to make an electric lighter, how to rewire an electrical circuit, how to make a multitude of toys from just a few scraps of wire, metal, and other odds and ends.  Even though I should be used to people staring at the scars, I fold my arms and bury my hands in my lap.

 

“How did you get those scars,” asks Ravi.

 

“I, uh, invent things,” I explain in a hushed whisper, “rebuild things, make new toys to play with, figure out how things works, or trying something because I read about it and see if I can do it.”

   

“That’s quite an interesting hobby.  And what motivates you to try these things?”

 

I shrug my shoulders.  “To see if I can do it, I guess.”  Truthfully, I never really gave much thought on why I do it.  I just like making things, seeing how they function, and just trying out what I learned.  “Like an experiment.”

 

“Do you think you can apply that mindset to your training?  For example, maybe you can tell yourself, ‘when I learn how to fish, I want to try it for myself because I have never done it before.’  Something like that.”

 

It takes me a moment to contemplate that answer before nodding my head.  I guess I can.  

 

“Good,” says Ravi, smiling.  And I smile back.  At least I can say that I am happy now because it feels like things might actually be alright.  Maybe not in the Arena, but I know how I can get through training and that it’s alright to be alone, even if Lianna doesn’t agree with me.  

 

“This brings me to something I want to ask,” adds Ravi, “officially, Lianna is your mentor.  However, it’s not going to work between you two.  How would you feel if I helped you until the Games start?  I still have to mentor Kelvin, so I will have to train the both of you.  This means you can’t hide and we won’t have as much time to go over what you learned in training as you would if it was just me.  Would you be okay with this?”

 

I vigorously nod my head.  Yes!  Yes, I want Ravi as my mentor.  I don’t care if I have to share with Kelvin.  I would rather get help from him than to be screamed at by Lianna.

 

“Okay then.  Do you want to take your dinner here?  There’s this microphone installed in the bedrooms where you can order room service.”

 

“Yes, please.”  After what happened, I don’t think I can go back out into the dining room.  It’s too noisy and I don’t want to risk the chance of running into Lianna again.  

 

“Alright.  Now you just take it easy for tonight and don’t let Lianna get to you.  It’s going to be a busy two days, and I want you to learn all that you can before the Games start.”

 

Before leaving, Ravi stops at the door gestures to my head.  I reach up and feel my fingers brush up against my short hair.  That horrid pink fringe is still there.  I haven’t had the time to cut them out yet.  “I’ll talk to Drusilla about dying your hair back to brown,” he says, “the florescent pink will be a liability.  Anyone can spot it from half a mile away.”

 

“And if she refuses?”

 

“We might have to cut it before you leave.”

 

I sit up on the bed and shrug my shoulders.  Eh, I’m used to bad haircuts.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm sorry that this isn't to exciting so far. Writing pre-Game chapters aren't the most thrilling thing ever. Reviews are greatly appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally created Ada Linus for an OC-based RP group that never really got off the ground. Because it took me a long time to come up with her profile (part of the application process included a full-length description of the Hunger Games that character took part in), I didn't want it to go to waste. 
> 
> So I decided to write a story about how someone could use her intelligence into a dangerous weapon. As an added challenge, I decided not to make her from District 3 nor a Foxface clone. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading.


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